Define Us
by maroonbanana
Summary: John has been kidnapped, abused, and violated. He claims that he is "over it," but Sherlock knows otherwise. How can he let John attempt to establish an intimate relationship with him knowing this? Angst/Slash/Romance  not necessarily in that order
1. Chapter 1

John Watson sat, blindfolded and completely alone in this room full of murderers and cowards, wondering when or if he'd get the chance to make his escape attempt.

Upon entering the room he had attempted to calculate any escape pattern that would work, but apparently he had been too conspicuous with his observations. The blindfold had immediately followed the punch that seemed to jar his entire face, the attempt to obscure his senses a success. The hit had actually caused him to lose his balance, the chair falling backwards, and his head painfully bouncing off the back of it upon impact. He was fairly certain of a concussion, but he decided it was more important to focus on finding a way out than worrying about what the objective of his abduction had been, and whether or not this was a ploy to pull Sherlock into a trap. His arms had been wrenched backwards upon arrival at this hovel, tied together behind the chair uncomfortably, though not to the chair, thankfully. He knew that if he needed to get up he could accomplish this, but his arms were stuck behind him until he could untie the complex but unusually strong nylon knotted mess holding his hands together.

One thing he knew as of right now, the room he was in had one small window towards the top of the wall as well as one door in the opposite direction of that which he was facing. The room had clearly been made to detain something or someone, what with the window literally being only a very small vent, and the door locking from the outside. The window was practically unreachable, and not just due to John's height. As far as he could tell there were seven men in the room, so the door wasn't an option. Yet.

He was wrenched out of thought by a painful push on his scarred shoulder, and made a valiant effort not to wince at the pain.

"I can practically see the gears turning in your brain. Quit it."

John wished he could determine where his assailant had vanished to, wishing he had spit on the man's feet when he'd had the chance to, when the voice reappeared in his left ear. "Thomas over there has been arrested twice for rape. He's also a gay. _Deduce_," he said this with the most disdain available to the human voice, "what you will, assistant."

He didn't feel fear, only the adrenaline rushing to his extremities that had lost circulation a while ago, and rushing through his head were thoughts of escaping, returning home to 221B, but there would be time for fantasizing later. First he had to actually escape.

He worked on inconspicuously moving his chair, centimeter by centimeter, closer to the door. This seemed to be working until he felt something bang against his head, the sound reverberating sickeningly within, and then darkness.

oOo

He became aware slowly, and then all at once, realizing that he was being restrained in a way completely different than he had been before. He looked around, but his eyes didn't seem to be working. Either that or he was still blindfolded. He moved his head, which seemed to be functioning for the most part, then attempted moving his arms but that didn't seem to be working, as they were tied above his head. He felt as if he were being held vertically, but recognized that he may be too disoriented to tell. His legs were unmoving, as well. This was frightening in the aspect that he had no control.

"Awake yet?" A new voice, an eerily lilting voice fell upon his ears in a manner that made John's hair stand on end. "Thatta boy. Come on, then."

John lifted his head, and was promptly slapped across the face, and almost immediately punched in the stomach.

His military training ensured that the pain was intolerable, but it definitely wasn't fun. Add the fact that he was uncompromisingly restrained, and he was beginning to panic.

A kick to the knee that held a sickening thud.

There were no words to accompany the blows he was receiving from his attacker.

He felt something slice into his upper thigh, most likely a knife.

How far would this go before stopping?

A succession of punches, traveling up his side, from his hip to his armpit, all excruciatingly painful, but he attempted to make his face appear neutral, in spit of the growing urge to vomit.

_John Watson was not afraid of death._

His vision was beginning to blur, a hazy border closing in around him.

Suddenly there was an agonizing burn he associated with his groin, but he was too disoriented to be sure.

Something was pushing it's way up his throat and out of his mouth.

Vomit?

_He just hoped his time wasn't now._

His vision went black again.

oOo

He awakened again, but this time instead of just feeling tired, he felt disgusting, and everything hurt. His entire body felt like it had bee trampled by a herd of elephants. Then said elephants had gone and told the giraffes to follow them, and they all walked over him again. He could only smell the dank purification of vomit at this point, and he remembered the pain of the last time he had awoken, and decided to pretend to be unconscious, still.

"Ah, ah, ah, I know you're awake…" The same eerily lilting voice as yesterday.

"Do you know why you are here, John Watson?" The voice was distinctly male, despite the lilt. "Do you know why you're presence here has continued?"

John didn't move, barely even dared to breath, it hurt so much.

"You are here…" The voice trailed off, as if the obtain some amount of interest or suspense, "You are here because your great detective… Does. Not. Care."

This did not ring true to him, but then again…how long had he been here? Days? It felt like years.

"He's not coming, John. He's never coming. He doesn't care about you."

That thought hurt worse than any physical blow this person could give.

John kept this though to himself, though.

He knew Sherlock would make it here, eventually. John clearly had lost his control, his arms tied and his legs tied, his face blindfolded, and his mouth gagged. He believed in Sherlock, his friend would come.

"He. Is. Not. Coming." His guard seemed to revel in enunciating each word.

"Are you quite sure about that?" The smooth, deep voice flowed over his ears, his mind, his body in a manner that held more healing power than any medical tools.

He heard the gasp of his assailant and five gunshots.

He heard Sherlock's voice shout to Lestrade to call an ambulance before letting himself fall into an unaware darkness once again, this time comforted by the fact that someone had come for him, but not just anyone.

His best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson regained consciousness slowly, but this time in a hospital. It was nice not to be blindfolded, to say the least. He could move his arms and legs a little more, but that produced an excruciatingly unpleasant feeling throughout his body, so he stilled.

He had never felt worse.

His eyes assessed the room, not caring about the confused expression that was probably plastered across his face. If his assailant saw it, so be it. He hurt too much to focus on such trivial things.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened the last time he woke up, but the pain in his thigh was much too distracting for him to focus on thinking.

He heard three quiet squeaking clicks, as if a button were being pressed, and the pain faded a bit. Finally, he could have a functional thought process.

The medical professional within him decided first, it was vital to remember what had happened, and second, assess what injuries he had sustained.

He could remember being abducted, Sherlock's face from the opposite side of the street as someone had come up behind him, he couldn't understand the panicked look until he felt himself drifting off into darkness. He remembers coming to in a little shack detainment hovel (really, what other words could he disdainfully apply to that place?) with one window and one door, and he remembers losing consciousness, waking up, being beaten… he feels himself flinch at remembered pain. He also remembers Sherlock's voice before letting himself drift off again.

So maybe now he was okay. Maybe now he was safe.

Then his mind turned to his detective, worrying more about his safety with every passing moment. Had he made it out of there unscathed? He turned his head, and started thrashing until he was reminded, once again, that yes, he was in a hospital, and currently he was hooked up to several different machines, so thrashing was not a good idea. He contorted his head, looking everywhere he could until his eyes came to rest on a figure slumped over in a chair next to his bed.

He was asleep, albeit uncomfortably, his knees pulled up so that his chin rested heavily on them, dark curls falling across his forehead, long enough to fall over the knees. John had the impulse to reach over and feel those curls, but for one thing he was held back by the pain and the connection to the machines, and for another how ridiculous an impulse is that?

He continued to watch as Sherlock Holmes rested, looking extremely uncomfortable. He wondered, in the back of his mind, how long Sherlock had been here. How long had John been here?

He wanted to wake Sherlock up, to tell him to go home and get some rest there, and to actually eat, he noticed with no small amount of disapproval that his body was looking much more angular than simply slender. He tried to articulate these thoughts into words, but his mouth didn't seem to be working. He had a brief moment of anxiety before realizing that his throat was just extremely dry, and he tried to talk again.

The words weren't coming out, and at this point he wasn't worried about it, but tremendously frustrated. He needed to get someone's attention.

He needed to talk.

He was tired of feeling so goddamned helpless.

* * *

><p>Sherlock POV<p>

Sherlock awoke and immediately his gaze turned to the incapacitated doctor, wondering how John was doing and how long he had been sleeping when he realized something was off. He scooted his chair closer, even though the nurses had told him that he couldn't be closer than three feet away. Damn them all to hell, they wanted him to remain off to the side as not to fall asleep slouched over the bed. As if.

John's face was red, and not just a slight blush, but legitimately colorful, he was looking irritated, despite his eyes being closed. He appeared asleep, but when Sherlock took his hand, John's eyes snapped open and the relief was minute in his features.

He kept mouthing something, and looked on the verge of crying when he realized that John was trying to say something to him, but couldn't. How long had he been laying there, trying to get Sherlock's attention? Where had the nurses been? It's amazing how whenever Sherlock attempted to move closer to the bed they would swoop in and take control and enforce the rules but when something like this occurs, they didn't take any notice. Sherlock was getting angry.

This was something new. Usually he was aggressively curious, sad, determined, bored…but rarely was he angry.

He was angry about the state he had found John in two days ago, he was angry about not being able to help, he was angry at how long John had been in that hovel, he was angry at Lestrade and the fact that nothing was ever in his division, so Sherlock had to take his worries to a different sector.

Overall, he was just angry with himself. If he hadn't strayed away from John before he had been abducted, this could have been avoided. Instead, he had been thinking, but not just any kind of thinking. This had been the kind of thinking that needed to occur, the kind that couldn't afford the distraction of John's presence. The best way he had thought to remedy that was to remove himself from John's presence. He thought on this decision with all the bitterness and scorn he could muster. He was the reason John lay here, unable to speak, barely able to move. He could have avoided all of this, but he realized…he was selfish. He was a selfish man.

He looked down at John, wondering how to help him. "John, can you hear me?"

John's eyes got wide and nodded slightly, but was still retaining his panicked expression, and still trying to make words come out. "Please stop trying to talk, I know you want to…" but John wasn't listening. He clearly had something to say, and he was going to be relentless until the words appeared.

"John."

More mouthing and that panicked look.

"John."

Sherlock knew his voice was sounding pained, however much he had tried to disguise it.

"John." He put his hand over John's mouth, hating that he had to, but really, what else could he do.

Sherlock closed his eyes so he didn't have to see the look on John's face, the panicked, wide eyed, red faced expression that made him look vulnerable and determined at the same time.

"John, stop. Please." He paused for a moment to regain some semblance of composure. Emotions wouldn't help John right now. "I can call the nurses in and tell them you're awake, but they will poke and prod at you. But if you calm down and relax," _deep breath, keep yourself together Sherlock, remember…sociopath…no emotion, _"If you can just pretend to still be unconscious, I will go get some water for your throat." He opened his eyes and saw John staring up at him, somewhat complacent. It was a little disturbing. Sherlock wondered if John even recognized who had been talking.

"Alright, I'll be back in a few minutes."

He squeezed John's hand lightly and practically ran down to the café and bought a water, running back upstairs to John, hoping that they nurses hadn't noticed he had awoken yet.

* * *

><p>John POV<p>

He was waiting, again. He was dependent on Sherlock once again, although not in as drastic a situation as before. He didn't like it, but he trusted Sherlock to take care of him. He had regained his senses, and was calmly surveying the room when the door squeaked a bit, and John quickly resumed the position he had awoken in, pretending to be unconscious until the door shut again as she was leaving. He maintained this position the next three times he heard the door squeak (it was rather annoying, they should probably fix these doors) until he heard Sherlock's deep baritone in his hear, "It's me. I bought you some water, just…drink it slowly, okay? You've been pretty deprived the past week."

He drank a few sips, and the water caressed his dry and aching throat on the way down.

"Don't make yourself sick," Sherlock said this in a clinical manner, rather than the worried tones he'd used earlier. Clearly he was feeling more at ease now that John had awoken.

Eventually he was able to speak, but at that point he didn't really have anything to say. It was nice to know he had the ability.

"What were you trying to say before?"

"I was just trying to get your attention. How bad am I?" John looked down at himself, all attempts at assessing his injuries had been a failure thus far.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "It's amazing how much pain you were able to withstand, John. I just…I don't know anyone else who would have been able to." He started rattling off a list of injuries that made John, as a medical professional, cringe to think of. It appeared that he had needed stitches in his upper thigh, a few ribs had broken, the major muscles in his arms and legs strained, and a concussion that should have rendered him dead had the blow landed anywhere else on his head. "I don't know how you're alive." Sherlock said quietly, and took John's hand again.

John felt the contact all the way through his arm. He squeezed Sherlock's hand reassuringly. He must be really upset if he's instigating this contact. He usually hated touching anyone, ever.

"What happened, Sherlock? Where the hell was I, and why did they take me?"

"They knew I'd come after you, and they wanted both of us to suffer," Sherlock decided to keep his answer short and to the point, not adding in what he had deemed 'unnecessary detail.'

"Why?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "Because you're the closest I will ever come to caring, and everyone can see that."

John stared back at him for a while, wondering exactly where this emission had come from. He didn't say anything, knowing that it would make Sherlock even more uncomfortable to expand on the statement. "Why were they concerned with us?"

"Do you remember the case you dubbed 'The Blind Banker?'" He waited for John's nod. "They were in contingency with the smuggling ring. I assume they wanted revenge, although…" Sherlock faltered.

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked out the window on the other side of the bed, his eyes somewhat glazed over in thought.

"Sherlock, you can tell me. Whatever…whatever it is."

Sherlock looked back to him, and said, very clearly and quietly, "The police never got a chance to ask them."

John was silent for a moment, contemplating this statement very carefully. Just to make sure, he stared into Sherlock's eyes and asked, "What happened?"

Sherlock's face adopted an expression that clearly stated he didn't want to discuss this, but the bored façade was fading in light of the thoughts buzzing behind it. He looked so conflicted, but all John could do was stare and wonder how exactly to get through to this man, to tell him to let his thoughts out like he normally did. Instead, he stroked a circle with his thumb on the back of Sherlock's hand in what he hoped was a coaxing, reassuring manner.

Spot on.

"I don't know, John. I was just…I was so angry. I walked in, intending to have them all arrested and get you out of there and call it a day and then I saw you, hung up like a cow after slaughter," as he said this he made eye contact with John, the expression pained and apologetic for the comparison, "and I couldn't help it. Your safety was in jeopardy. Your body was so clearly abused. You had lost so much blood. The pain in your face was unmistakable." He delivered these statements slowly and with clarity. "I shot each of them. All I could think of was how they had…mistreated you. It was more than I could…it just had to be done, John." He, once again, adopted his bored expression, but John knew. He knew that what he said now would determine whether Sherlock would continue caring or close himself off completely, refusing to share any piece of himself ever again.

John contemplated his response for a moment, one excruciatingly long moment.

He held onto Sherlock's hand a little tighter so he would know to look up from whatever had suddenly become so fascinating about the floor. Once eye contact had been made John leaned in as close as he could without dislodging any of the machines hooked up to him. "I would have done the same. If it had been you, I would have done the same thing."

He could see the tension leave Sherlock's body, but considering how much emotion had been running through him the past few days, he didn't press and attempt to remove the bored expression from Sherlock's face.

"Call the nurse so that we can get the hell out of here. I'm ready to go home."

Minutes later the nurse came in, wide eyes. "It's amazing that you pulled through, dear. Your partner here," she gestured to Sherlock, "didn't leave your side unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Very sweet. No respect for personal boundaries, though," her voice turned remotely disapproving. "Kept scooting that chair closer and closer. Anyway, we should be able to send you two home in a few hours, just let me get the doctor…" her voice faded as she walked away, and John turned to look at Sherlock.

He was amazed to actually see an embarrassed blush rising from his neck and working its way up to his cheeks. It was so out of character, John almost didn't believe it was there.

Maybe he was on more drugs than he originally assumed, he thought while smiling at his flat mate.

* * *

><p>AN: Hello everyone! Please drop a review letting me know what you liked so that I'll be able to incorporate similar aspects into the next few chapters, as well as what you didn't like (and why.) (As in don't be afraid of insulting me. I take criticism rather well.) It would help to let me know where you would like this story to go. Any prompts, any suggestions left will be taken into account when writingediting future chapters. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock asked him what he remembered from the kidnapping. John wished he could say nothing, but he knew it was a lie. He remembered every single blow, every single flicker of a knife across his skin. He remembered being strung up as a human sacrifice, and he remembered the sound of shots before he let himself fall into blissful unconsciousness.

The problem, John determined, resided solely in the fact that he had no idea what happened in between he brief lapses of consciousness. What had happened? Who were his tormentors?

These questions, along with many others surrounded his brain as Sherlock fell into an unprecedented and completely out of character habit of attempting to take care of John.

"Is your leg offering you any discomfort?"

"Do you need any more painkillers?"

"Would you like some tea?"

To be honest, he missed the silent brooding and thinking Sherlock, the Sherlock who ignored him for days on end, then set about taking him to dinner when the case was solved, when the work was done. Lately, though, it appeared that Sherlock was deliberately passing up fantastic cases if only to take care of John. He couldn't understand why, but he knew that he had to think about how to approach Sherlock about this, otherwise the detective would definitely be so entirely offended that the brooding would turn into downright nasty, bitingly sarcastic comments to everyone around him.

He had to approach this rationally, and delicately.

The day after deciding he had to approach Sherlock about his new mother hen attitude is the day something seems a little off with him. Sherlock, who for the past week had given John his undivided attention, seemed ill at ease. Anyone who wasn't Mycroft Holmes or John Watson wouldn't be able to tell, but John saw it. He saw it in the way that Sherlock looked just above John's eyes when he spoke to him, he saw it in the way that Sherlock's hand twitched whenever John touched him, he saw it in the little-more-than-tense posture Sherlock had been keeping, but most of all, he felt it in the air, a prickly unpleasant feeling permeating 221B.

"Is everything alright?" He posed the question quietly, and with an earnest amount of confusion as Sherlock leaned over the armchair and handed John his tea.

Sherlock didn't look at him, didn't even look up, simply tensed a little, then visibly relaxed. John could tell, though, that Sherlock was far from relaxed.

"Sherlock..." He said softly, and if he hadn't been rendered immobile by the cut on his thigh he would have walked over and forced the man to sit down and talk to him.

Unfortunately, it hurt like a bitch every single time he attempted to get up, as the cut was not healing too quickly due to the depth.

Sherlock straightened up and mumbled a quick excuse before bolting out of the flat, not stopping to take his coat. He didn't get far before John saw the panic and tears filling up his eyes, but managed to make it out the door before seeing John struggle to get up. John looked around, hoping to see his old walking stick or perhaps some kind of a crutch, but the flat held nothing so he gritted his teeth and staggered his way out the door, grabbing his and Sherlock's coats on the way out.

The stairs were an entirely different problem, and every step felt like soaking each stitch in vinegar, but he eventually made it down the stairs. John Watson, god damn it, was an ex-soldier and he could withstand any hellish amount of pain if that were the only thing the army had ever taught him. God damn it.

It hurt, though, and he knew there was no way to escape this pain, but he knew he had to move quickly, otherwise he'd stand no chance of seeing which way Sherlock went.

_Maybe he's sick of me. Maybe he's just tired of taking care of an incapacitated old man._

The longer John thought about this, the more he wondered whether he should just leave Sherlock alone. Too late now, though. He didn't stand a chance of making it up the stairs alone when he barely made it down the stairs without passing out from the pain in his leg.

Just then a dull ache made itself known towards his ribs, reminding him of another injury. This, too was ignored as he made his way down Baker Street, ignoring the CCTV swirling and following his movements. The slow turn reminded him of how sluggishly he was moving and he attempted to speed up. As he rounds the corner at the end of Baker Street he sees a bench in front of a storefront, which is keeping the company of a slender figure folded in on itself, legs tucked under his body as hands grip its face, crouched over.

John's heart stuttered at the look of utter exhaustion etched on the figures back, knowing it was Sherlock, attempting to move faster, and left with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realized that those shoulders were shaking.

As he approaches, Sherlock's head raises a bit, murky eyes looking from behind wet and unruly dark curls. He shakes his head in a negatory manner, looking panicked again but John holds his hands up in a manner that clearly states 'okay, okay' but continues to move closer, at a slower speed, and finally his hand comes to rest on Sherlocks shoulder and he can feel Sherlock leaning into the contact but he doesn't know what else to do in this moment so he drops to his knees to reach Sherlock's level and wraps his arm around the man holding on tight as he can.

John can feel Sherlock's heaving sobs as the detective buries his head into John's neck, can feel the area dampening with tears he realized Sherlock had been keeping inside, the tears so many assumed he didn't have the capacity to produce. The small sounds expelled into his neck could only be compared accurately to the forlorn cries of a dying animal, and each one tore at John's heart more than the last.

As the sobbing reached its crescendo, John continued holding Sherlock firmly around the middle with one arm, and stroking up and down his back in a soothing motion with the other, sometimes reaching his hair and raking his fingers through the curls, all while surrounded by all of the fog and dampness and liveliness that London had to offer on a day like this, and John wondered if Sherlock would ever be able to ring in this level of emotion when he was done.

Eventually, though, the sobbing quieted and John noticed the burning that had arisen in his thigh, and the ache in his ribs, and the coolness of Sherlock's breath on his collarbone. It was peaceful for a moment, and it appeared as though the detective had fallen asleep until John reached between then, took Sherlock's face in one of his hands and raised it, so that their eyes would meet.

"Will you please come home?" Sherlock nodded, still looking exhausted, but the tension had drained out of him and he was almost dead on his feet. John didn't ask all the way home, and Sherlock didn't say.

The reached the door of 221B and John's pain was white hot rod of fire being forced through his body, and Sherlock was supporting him until they got through the door, at which point Sherlock grabbed John around the middle and wrapped him in a hug so tight he thought his lungs would burst, but he hugged back, knowing that this had to be serious if Sherlock were showing this much emotion in one afternoon. His head dropped back down next to John's, and after a while Sherlock's grip loosened a bit, but he continued to stand with John, embracing him as John soothingly stroked up and down his back.

"What's wrong?" John murmured, turning his face into Sherlock's hair. "Why are you so upset?"

Sherlock shook his head, seeming unable to move. "I don't know, John," his voice hoarse and pained, the aftermath of such painful sobbing. "I was fine when I saw you, and I was fine in the hospital, but ever since..." he trailed off as he lifted his head. "It's been so difficult, John. Every time I see you, all I can imagine is you strung up...bleeding out. Dead. Me being too late. It's just..." John could see Sherlock pulling himself together, slowly, but still doing so.

"I can't sleep."

John looked at him in an extremely confused manner. "You never sleep."

"I usually," Sherlock coughed, trying to keep his voice from coming apart, "get at least an hour or so a day but every time I close my eyes, all I see is the blood dripping from your leg, John, all I see is you strung up like a dead cow to slaughter, all I see are the vacant, half dead eyes of my best friend, and every time, right before I wake up, all I see is Molly shaking her head sadly in the middle of St. Barts, tears pouring out of her eyes as someone pulls a sheet back from your lifeless body and I can't handle it, John." Sherlock was speaking in earnest now, the words bubbling from somewhere inside as though a dam had burst and the words would keep coming, enunciated and clear, but low and pained. He laughs, an unhappy, humorless, tormented laugh. "Mycroft was right. Caring isn't an advantage."

"And all this time I've thought you were going stir crazy wanting to ask me about what happened while I was there."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "I already know," he says quietly, and after a moment John raises his eyebrows to prompt him to continue on. Sherlock sighs. While you were there, a video recording was sent to us. It was the only way we found you. Everything up until you being tortured while strung up...well, we saw all of it. Every time you regained consciousness, every time they even remotely touched you. It was all there." His grip on John tightened. "We simply had Mycroft send the clips to technological forensics and they determined what type of camera was used to record it, he decoded the make and model, Mycroft set to finding a list of camera's like that being purchased in the last few months. The idiots had it registered with their location, and it was in the london area. It was a fairly expensive camera, upwards of nine hundred dollars, John." His voice dripping with disdain at their utter stupidity at this point. "It's a wonder they had the capacity to kidnap you at all, John, it really is. It took us less than an hour to track you down at that point, and you know what happened after that."

He drops his head again, the words seem to have stopped momentarily, and as Sherlock lets go and steps away, John feels himself swaying before Sherlock curses and takes him by the waist. "Why did you follow me?" John looks down, and behind the black dots clouding his vision he notes the very small bloodstain working its way through his trouser leg. This vaguely registers as 'not good.'

"'Pstairs, Shhhlock." He can feel himself losing consciousness, and he's tired so damn tired, and maybe, just maybe he should have been taking those painkillers Sherlock had given him every morning. "With me."

He feels himself first taken into the bathroom and the bandage over his stitches being changed, then feels himself being dragged up the stairs, and he's making a valiant effort not to pass out, but the darkness is so comforting, and to not know anything, even just for a few moments; a brief respite from the pain he's feeling right now, and it would be lovely but his worry for his partner outweighs the need for sleep, at least as long as was needed, as long as physically possible. As he reaches his bed, Sherlock deposits him beneath the covers, and as he starts to straighten up, John pulls him down onto the bed and wraps his arms around the Detective whispering in a fading, wearied voice, "Stay. Sleep." His worry the only thing keeping him awake at this point. He opens his eyes to the beautiful pair staring back at him, red rimmed and tired, pupils wide, and repeats, "Stay. Sleep." He feels Sherlock nod before grasping him tighter, and John feels himself falling into blissful oblivion.

Just before John crossed the line between full on unconcioussness and slight drowsiness, he hears Sherlock whisper quielty, "It wasn't really about the sleep though."

_I must already be dreaming. _He determines, and lets himself cross that line of wakefullness and unconcioussness.


End file.
